Say Walah

28: Shadows Of Onoka

The moons waxed and waned, each one bringing subtle changes to our lives like the shifting patterns of clouds before a storm. I spent cowries freely – more than most farmers would see in many harvests – bringing in teachers from villages as far as three days' walk away. Each was chosen carefully, not just for their skills but for their ability to keep secrets. As Amadi often said, a man's silence could be bought, but only if he had something worth losing.

The herb woman from Abankiti spoke little, taught much, and left with a heavy pouch of cowries. Her weathered face and gentle hands revealed a lifetime of knowledge, enough to be worth a new herd of goats. Mairo absorbed everything like parched earth drinking rain, her natural affinity for healing making the deception feel less like a lie with each passing day.

For Rimi, we found a master weaver from Aguobodo, a woman whose fingers danced across threads like spirits through morning mist. The cowries I paid her made her eyes widen, but the oath she swore was binding – sealed with both blood and cola nut.

"You're burning through your savings like dried grass in harmattan," Amadi observed one morning, eyes narrowing as his machete whistled past my ear. "What's so special about these girls that you're willing to risk everything?"

I twisted away, my own blade catching the dawn light. "What better use for it? Besides—" I ducked under his swing, "—money won't matter if the Onowu discovers the truth."

Each dawn, the clash of machetes echoed through the compound, mingling with labored breaths and the hiss of morning dew. We moved from blades to spears, then to bows, pushing until our muscles screamed. The calluses on our hands grew thicker, and old scars from our younger days began to shine again with fresh purpose.

"Your form is sloppy," I would tell Amadi.

"Your footwork is worse," he would reply, before trying to sweep my legs out from under me.

Inside the compound, Mairo and Rimi's voices began to change. The strange accents of their homeland softened, replaced by the rhythms and tones of our language. They stopped translating in their heads before speaking. Words flowed more naturally, and with them came laughter – something I hadn't even realized had been missing before.

"Orji," Mairo called one evening – my name now falling from her lips as naturally as if she'd been born speaking it – "taste this medicine and tell me if it's bitter enough."

"Last time I tasted your medicine, I couldn't feel my tongue for two days," I replied, but drank it anyway. The trust between us had grown as sturdy as an iroko tree.

Rimi's fingers grew rough with calluses of her own, though from thread rather than weapons. She would often sit in the evening light, practicing her weaving while watching Amadi and me spar. "Your left side is open again," she would call out, never looking up from her work.

But beneath our daily routines lay a current of tension, like the stillness before a storm. I would catch Amadi scanning the treeline during our practices, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. The Onowu's silence was too complete, too patient.

"He's waiting," Amadi said one day, wiping sweat from his brow. "Men like him don't forgive being humiliated before their king. He won't stop until he finds a reason to end you, Orji. And when he does, he won't come alone."

I wiped sweat from my brow, watching Mairo and Rimi going about their tasks in the compound. They moved differently now – more confident, more at home. The sight filled me with both pride and fear.

"Then let him wait," I replied, standing to begin another round. "When he comes, we'll be ready."

Amadi grinned, raising his machete. "If you can ever fix that sloppy guard of yours."